


Drinking Game

by misha906 (BoopPhysics)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:21:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26745082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoopPhysics/pseuds/misha906
Summary: The return of night in the Crystarium allows the Warrior of Light to indulge in one of her pastimes.
Relationships: Urianger Augurelt/Warrior of Light
Kudos: 7





	Drinking Game

It is hard to appreciate something until one has gone for months without it.

The Crystarium changes in the absence of light. Its black metal frames and awnings blend into the air. Its stone and glass creaks minutely with the breeze that tinkles through its dimly lit aisles and gardens. Calm sweeps through, for it resolves the animalistic attachment to rest under the blanket of night. There was a rush, in the beginning, for torches and candles; a mad yet appreciative scramble to light the dark that its denizens never thought would return, but life adapts, and now circadian rhythm has reasserted itself over the city.

The Warrior of Light similarly blessed the dark, for it lends familiarity to one of her favorite pastimes. One started at some backwater inn deep into the Thanalan desert and brought through all of Eorzea and well into the eastern reaches of Othard, and now finally to the very distant reaches of the First. 

“Over-under twelve drinks?” Memme asked, turning the bottle in her hand. It was recommended to her by Giott, and knowing the shite-eating grin the dwarf had on her face, Memme knew it would be a force to be reckoned with. 

“Twelve? This place soften you up that much?” Her compatriot in drunken arms asked in disbelief. Thancred plucked the bottle from her hands, opened it, took a sniff, and nodded sagely. “I understand, over-under twelve it is,” he said.

“Never should’ve trusted a dwarf to pick a bottle,” Memme said. She filled the two tiny clay cups in front of her and passed one across the creaky wooden table to Thancred. They were the last lonely island in the vast ocean of empty chairs at empty tables, save for the few tending the circular bar of The Wandering Stairs. 

Thancred started them off, taking his share of alcohol and throwing the mouthful back in a single fluid motion. He turned his cup upside down to indicate its relative emptiness—save for a drop or two—and set it back on the table. Memme followed with a slower, yet similarly draughtful swallow of liquid fire. 

“How has camping in Il Mheg been?” Memme asked. She began picking at the rather large serving of favored bar food that Glynard had set in front of them without any prompting. From what she understood the closest approximation of it was a mixture of Isalbard and Othard cuisine, consisting of a pile of plant roots that were pickled and seasoned in a mixture of pepper sauce and oil and mixed vigorously. The end result was a noodle-like collection of roots which paired fantastically to any spirits one might be so inclined to imbibe due to its mild spice yet hearty flavor. It felt embarrassing to be handed food and drink for free, especially when she had the ability to pay for it, but the girthy owner of the place had adamantly refused to accept her money no matter her protestations, citing her heroics as more than enough payment.

“Fine,” Thancred answered. He refilled their cups and slid one back across the table to Memme. “Ryne’s not used to sleeping in a tent, but she’ll manage.”

“Do you need me out there? I could come assist in the research, or at least carry a cot or two for you two,” Memme offered. The second glass of the mystery liquor burned less than the first while wonderfully fueling the warmth in her belly. 

“Nay, we’ll manage fine. Tis would be better for you to focus on more important things, like saving the world,” Thancred said. 

“And here I thought you would say that the world could wait on your personal comfort,” Memme joked. 

“If the matter were as simple as a Primal or Garleans, I would agree,” Thancred said. “Though business with Ascians paints the situation in a different light, not to mention the state of things on the Source.”

Memme nodded, and poured another pair of drinks. “Very well, but please don’t hesitate to ask if you need my help,” she said, throwing it back. 

Thancred laughed. “Far be it for me to not come for your help when it’s needed. Worry not for us, Memme,” he said. He picked up a bunch of the roots with his bare hand and popped them in his mouth.

“Thancred, that’s disgusting,” Memme chided, picking at the plate with a fork. 

“My hands are clean,” he protested. 

“Don’t lie to me like that,” Memme said. 

“I’m not lying,” he argued. 

“Lying’s in your blood,” Memme said, handing him another glass. Thancred stuck his tongue out at her and drank.

“Is the Exarch doing well?” Thancred asked. 

“As well as can be, for a fool that values my life more than his,” Memme scoffed, downing her fifth drink. “I know not why he follows and asks after me so. It is an aggravation.”

“He loves you,” Thancred said, but quickly raised his arms in supplication when Memme’s face exploded in bewilderment. “No, not in that sense,” he clarified. 

“Fair few senses but that sense,” Memme said, pouring their sixth drink.

“Aye,” Thancred responded. “Yet I say not in the sense you assume. Tis not ‘love’ the same way most say ‘I love you’.”

“You love me not?” Memme asked in theatrical absurdity, placing a hand mockingly upon her chest and shaking her head slowly. “Fie, Prince Waters, fie!” 

  
“Shut up, Memme,” Thancred said, swallowing his sixth drink. Memme raised her cup in a mock toast before following suit. Thancred continued talking. “Let me reiterate, he loves you in the same way a child loves his parents. His adoration of you comes from a deep respect of the things you’ve done.”

“I don’t even know his name,” Memme grumbled. The liquor was working startlingly fast upon her mind, already clouding it in its heady heated haze. Godsdamned Giott, she was never going to trust anything that woman had to say about drinks ever again, what good was a bottle that put her under the table in just a few sips?

“But he knows yours. The tales of your heroism have now reached beyond just the far edges of the world, Memme. You should be proud,” Thancred said.

“I don’t think pride should be a factor in duty,” Memme murmured.

“And there you go again, being too humble and heroic sounding for your own good. Eat. Drink. Be merry,” Thancred commanded, sliding over another drink.

“Fine, yet I think we might have to call it an early night,” Memme said.

“Where do you have to go other than to your bed at the Pendants?” Thancred asked, grabbing another mass of roots with his bare hand yet again and dropping it into his mouth.

“I’m meeting Urianger at Eulmore,” Memme said.

“Oh, are you two finally seeing each other?” Thancred asked. Memme’s head, ears, and hackles went up in shock. 

“I’m sorry?” she asked.

“I care little about fraternizing amongst teammates,” Thancred said with his mouth full. “Though I hope you can tell the Exarch and Alisaie soon afore they both are heartbroken.”

“We are not…” Memme considered her next words carefully. “We are meeting for professional purposes,” she said.

“Sure, sure, whatever you say,” Thancred said, with a grin upon his face that invited a boot mark.

“I do not—” Memme began, but cut herself off before damning herself. She carefully set her glass down and inched it towards the center of the table with a finger. “That was eight, wasn’t it?” she asked.

“Just about,” Thancred said, pouring his ninth. 

“How much do I owe you?”

“I don’t want your gil, I have no need for it.”

“But tis how we’ve always done these wagers,” Memme insisted, pawing at her robes for her coin purse.

“I wager a brand new world could have some bearing on changing that,” Thancred said.

“...And what would you propose that be?” Memme asked carefully. 

“How long have you two been seeing each other?”

“We aren’t seeing each other.” 

“You’re going to meet him in the dead of night.”

“At  _ Eulmore _ .” 

“Exactly, at Eulmore.”

Memme crossed her arms. “And what is that supposed to mean?” she asked.

“They have an all-day dancer’s club there, do they not? All dim with plush couches and private rooms?” Thancred said with a chuckle. Memme kicked his shin under the table, yet it fazed him none. Damnable armor.

“You are disgusting, Thancred Waters,” she said, though the verbal offensive left about as much impact as the physical one.

“I am not the one secretively meeting a lover that I will not admit to at some godforsaken hour after a bout of heavy drinking,” he replied. He continued before Memme could voice her outrage again. “Though I would be remiss not to ask you to approach him slowly. Poor man still carries the burden of Moenbryda with him.”

The name drains Memme’s alarm, causing her ears and face to fall in tandem. “Aye,” she acknowledged, deflating into her seat. 

“He’s discussed it with you,” Thancred said. 

“Aye,” Memme confirmed. “Tis why we’re not...officially seeing each other.”

“I understand,” Thancred said. 

“You should not tell the others,” Memme said. 

“I won’t,” Thancred replied. 

“I mean it,” Memme insisted. 

“I won’t,” Thancred repeated.

“We will tell them when we are ready,” Memme said.

“You tell me any more you’ll be late to meet him.”

Memme shot up in alarm as she noticed the hour via the large clock behind the bar. “Shite,” she hissed. “I need to go.” 

The Vieran woman threw down a handful of gil on the table and shot off towards the aetheryte by the base of the bar. Thancred said nothing but waved her along as he finished his twelfth drink. 


End file.
